Eve

Chapter 17

PART II

The squirrel stopped, turning its eyes towards me. It looked around a bit, sniffed, then resumed its climb, disappearing between the branches up above.

Leaning against the rail, I sipped the coffee. The house was quiet, and the first chill of early morning burned my nostrils when I breathed. No sound except for the hungover birds still awake from bird parties last night.

"Eve?" The voice was Aunt Meredith's, and it came from downstairs.

"Over here," I replied, stepping away from the balcony and crossing into the house. "Edgar still asleep?"

"Yes. Do I smell coffee?"

"By the stove."

Aunt Meredith was a tall woman. Tall and broad-shouldered. Growing up, I remember getting vertigo whenever she picked me up.

"Fell out of bed?" Meredith asked, as we took opposite seats around the coffee table.

"Didn't sleep."

Meredith fished a flask from her purse and poured some on her coffee. "No calls from Damian, huh?"

I scoffed. "Nothing."

There was a lot to like about Aunt Meredith -- and not just the fun, functioning-alcoholism. She had never married – something I've always admired. She also held a pretty respectable position at an advertising agency back in Pasadena – something I found profoundly boring, but still, respectable. And she disagreed with pretty much everything mom said – probably the most blatant trait we had in common.

"Don't worry, darling," Meredith's voice rang, as I lowered my eyes to my phone again. "I'm sure he's fine."

The house was Meredith's and, like its owner, was big and tall. All wooden from walls to decoration, it reminded me of the insides of a very large boat. Stuffed fishes hung from the walls, big wooden cabinets nested dusty books by the fireplace, and an old grandpa's clock ticked imposingly by the front door.

The place looked like it was owned by an eighteen century war general. Which it kind of was.

"Did you eat, yet?" Meredith asked, bringing my eyes back up to her.

I raised my coffee mug.

"That? Come on." She got up and took me by the hand. "Let's go buy some real breakfast."

It was now four weeks since the first confirmed case of the Philly Flu. Three since mom and I left L.A, and about three and a half since I've been depressed like a satanist kid on Christmas Eve. No word from Damian, not since that half-call when Mom and I were still on the road.

The first two weeks, all we did was watch the news. It pretty soon became clear that leaving LA had been a good idea. What started as riots and fire quickly turned into chaos: Forums and board messages online were flooding with videos of looters, murders, fights... zombies being gunned down by the army, the whole deal. On Friday, a curfew was established. On Sunday, Martial Law was declared all over the country.

Philadelphia was gone. I stopped watching the news when they reported the first hundred thousandth death. There were talks of bombing the city, and counter-talks of people saying the very thought was absurd. And then more talks saying the idea that the very thought was absurd was absurd.

I had no idea if Damian was still in Pennsylvania. And I was afraid to find out.

In Big Bear, though, things were relatively calm. It was pretty far from ski season, and I doubt people were looking to ski anyway, so it was empty. The only lights in the houses were from people like us – families who fled from the main cities into their holiday huts, waiting for the storm to blow over. If it ever did.